


Crossroads

by awhitehart



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Death, Happy Ending, Knives, Sexual Harassment, Stillbirth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 07:58:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3642648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awhitehart/pseuds/awhitehart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>About ten years after the events of ADWD, Sansa Stark is a midwife in a market town when someone from her past re-appears unexpectedly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Crossroads

The inn was crowded with smallfolk and merchants, all in town for the market to sell or trade their wares. The place was teeming with people and noisy and hot. It was the end of the first day of many market days and there was a general celebratory feeling about the place. Young children ran about, bringing meals from the kitchens to guests. A few dogs sniffed at plates and gnawed discarded bones beneath tables. Merchants argued loudly about their day’s successes and failures. Most everyone was drunk. It had been a good day for many.

Meanwhile, a small group of women sat silently at a table to themselves by the back door. Though were all deep in their cups just as the others in the tavern they did not share in the night’s merriments. All the women were whores, save one, who was a midwife. One of the younger whores, named Rosie, had died the night before. After three days of labouring, both the mother and babe had died together in a bath of blood. They had been buried in the woods outside the town walls earlier in the day. Both were considered outside the reach of the Seven’s arms by any of the clergy.

The madam of the house had given the whores the evening to themselves, well, until midnight at least. The opportunity to lighten the merchants coin purses, made too heavy from the day’s successes, could not be passed by. Death and chasing coin were the ways of the world, after all.

Though some of the women had been crying earlier and recalling the memory of the deceased girl, one of the sterner women had told them to shut up and so the group merely sat at the table in a weighty silence, drowning their sadness with cheap wine.

“Fuck this,” one of the older women said angrily. She gulped the remains of her cup. “Let’s get back to work now, girls.” To the midwife, she gave only a thin lipped smile in acknowledgement.

Sansa Stark smiled wanly in reply and put on her cloak to leave. She then made her way out the back door, legs unsteady from the drink. She shouldn’t have let the sadness lead her to drink so much. She needed to check on the children, who were sleeping in Mother’s room. Mother was the innkeeper’s elderly mother who had her own apartment in one of the corners of the building. The inn was a puzzle of added rooms and floors, part brothel, part inn. Mother lived on the far side of the building and her apartment had its own door, which fronted onto the town square. Sansa would need to circle round through the back alley to reach it.

The night air was a relief to her lungs after the stifling warmth of the inn. The alleyway behind the inn was crowded near another building and so it was rather dark and narrow. Sansa walked towards the lights which indicated the town square on which the inn fronted was nearby.

“How much for a suck, ducky?” slurred a voice from amongst the shadows.

“You’ll have to suck it yourself I’m afraid, I’m no whore,” Sansa said retorted. She was not usually so brazen, but the drink and the girl’s death had worn her patience thin. And besides, she’d lived amongst monsters and she was not afraid of one drunken fool. She only wanted to sleep and see her babies.

The man emerged from the shadows, blocking the path ahead of her. He was about her age, with chin length golden hair and a handsome face. _Bastard._ The anger of the week’s events burst within her at the sight of him.

“Come now, I saw you at the table with the others -” a swift, hard kick of her boot to his manhood cut him short. He fell to the ground, hands cupped between his legs. He rocked his body on the muddy ground, panting and moaning in pain.

“If I ever see you again I’ll stick you,” Sansa grabbed the dagger she kept in her belt and made a stabbing motion towards him. The young man only moaned again, still wracked with pain. She’d had quite enough of men for a lifetime.

Sansa laughed and turned away, skirts and cloak spinning. _I really am drunk_ , she thought and laughed again. Suddenly, another voice that was not her own entered her mind. _A lady would not behave in such a manner!_ scolded her dead septa’s voice. _A lady would not be midwife to whores_ , Sansa retorted, hiding her giggles behind her hand. She was almost at Mother’s door, she could see it across the town square. “I’m a proper bloody lady,” she muttered, giggling, head spinning. She mocked a curtsey to an imaginary court.

As she came up from her curtsey Sansa’s boot caught in the hem of her skirts and she slid awkwardly with a splat into the mud of early spring. The mud smelled foul, of horse shit and sourleaf spit, but in her drunken state she appreciated the cold feeling of the icy puddles against her flaming skin. The cold, muddy water was beginning to soak through her cloak and dress. She shivered and made a half-hearted attempt to stand. She only slipped again. She no longer felt hot, but was beginning to feel a cold sleep threaten. She was shivering constantly now.

A huge shadow loomed over her. It was with great effort that Sansa turned her head upwards to see who she needed to stick with her dagger. A giant of a man towered over her. He was naked from the waist up and black hair covered his chest, belly and forearms. Innumerable silver lines and pocks, formed by years worth of healed wounds, scored the naked skin. The left shoulder and upper arm was one mass of burn scarring. The man’s skin steamed in the cold of the night. Long black hair fell in inky tendrils over his shoulders and framed one side of his face, which was scowling down at her. The grey of the man’s eyes bore down into her, questioning. The other half of the face was horribly burned and cast in an expressionless mask of shiny distorted flesh.

The man said nothing as he leaned down and scooped her up in one swift movement, not ungently. Sansa did not struggle. She knew this man. I am a precious sack of potatoes. She giggled and hiccuped.

His skin was warm against her damp and now frigid skin. The hair of his chest was coarse against her fingers, like that of a bear. Sansa giggled again, and rubbed her cold, muddy cheek against the warmth of his chest. A childhood song came to mind and she started to half sing, half mutter,

“ _A bear there was, a bear, a bear!_  
_all black and brown, and covered with hair -_ ”

She stopped singing, she suddenly did not feel so mirthful. The world was starting to spin . She could not keep her eyes open, the weight of the last week and the drink was growing increasingly heavier. _I only want to see my children._ She felt she might be sick. She shut her eyes to stop the world spinning.

So warm and solid, was the body that held her, if a bit softer and significantly more scarred than she’d ever imagined. He was supposed to be dead and Sansa knew for a fact that dead men should not be so warm. She’d know him once… The darkness was closing.

“You’ve grown a bit fat, Ser,” was all she could mutter before darkness overtook her. As her world turned to black she felt the rumbled laughter and heat of his chest reverberate through her own cold, exhausted body.

-

Sansa awoke with a start some time later under a pile of heavy blankets. In a flash, she threw the blankets aside and stood up by the bed where she’d been sleeping. The room was dark and the slow burning embers cast the room in a harsh red glow. Her head was pounding. Instinctively, her right hand reached for her knife but where she’d usually feel the hilt, her hand grasped only the linen of her shift. The blade was gone. A lifetime ago she might have panicked, but now, she felt only anger. The wolf in her flashed its teeth.

“Calm now, girl. You’d think you weren’t in your own house,” a male voice grumbled from the darkness, not unkindly, in a tone reserved for skittish horses. Her great wolf hound Shadow emerged from beside the speaker, alerted by his master’s surprise. He wagged his tail uncertainly.

A small body crashed into her and small pudgy arms wrapped around her legs. Sansa looked down at her daughter and then around the darkened room. Yes. My own house. Her head was pounding.

“You fell asleep Mother, so we told your friend how to take us home,” Beth’s lispy child’s voice stated proudly. Suddenly, the day’s events returned to her and Sansa felt great relief, though much anger remained. Shadow walked over and pushed his nose at Sansa’s hip. The dog’s tail was now wagging contentedly.

“Good girl,” Sansa said as she picked up the small body in one reflexive movement and looked about the room. “Where is Edwyn?”

“Sleeping,” the toddler answered, yawning herself, pointing towards the crib in the small corner on the other side of the fireplace. There, she could faintly see the outline of a sleeping Edwyn, his baby’s arms protruding from beneath his blanket. Sansa could see the slow rise and fall of his chest in sleep.

Beth buried her face in Sansa’s hair, yawning again. It felt good to hold Beth in her arms and satisfying to know Edwyn slept well. It was good to be home again. Sansa sniffed at the small body laying against her chest, _The child will need a bath in the morning._

Still holding the dozing Beth, Sansa looked around the darkened room and as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she started to see the outline of a man of great stature sitting in the shadows in the corner by the fire. Satisfied that his family was well, Shadow had returned by the fire to sit by the large man. The former was was sitting in a chair by the fire, legs propped up on a stool, large fingers interlaced on his lap. He unlaced his hands to give the great dog a pat. _Traitor,_ Sansa thought. It seemed the dog was a better nurse than guard dog. She loved the beast but was a bit unsettled that he’d taken to the newcomer so quickly.

A heavy wool cape hung on the side of the chair where the man sat. He wore a simple cotton tunic and leggings. He had taken off his well worn riding boots and laid them down to dry by the fire. He’d also removed his sword belt, which lay against the wall. Despite the sword, he wore no armour. The man looked almost peaceful, sitting there. There was something monastic about him that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Neither could she decide if she felt that seeing him in such plain attire made him look a bit out of sorts. He could almost pass as any other traveller come to market despite the fact that he was anything but an ordinary traveller. Years back, when there had been Seven Kingdoms, he was known and feared by most as a fierce warrior called the Hound.

“Please, make yourself at home,” Sansa sneered, leaning to set Beth down in the bed and smoothing the blankets over the sleeping child. Sansa looked back over her shoulder towards the Hound. He said nothing, but he stared at her intently and she could see the hint of a smile creep over the unburned side of his face. Sansa turned back quickly towards Beth. The child was still so small, not much older than a baby, barely four years old, but already strong, so intelligent, so funny. Sansa brushed aside a strand of brown curly hair framed the round cheeks of Beth’s face.

Sansa’s head was still pounding and she suddenly remembered some of the events that lead to her being picked up from the mud by the Hound. She spun around and hissed, careful not to wake the children, “ _This is a clean shift_ ,” she plucked at the clean linen from her collar demonstrably.

The Hound raised his hands, palms towards her, “Your friends at the Seven Bells made sure you were clean enough and changed you before we left.”

“They let you _take_ me?” she was incredulous. Whores were more defensive than anyone when it came to protecting their own friends, especially where men were concerned.

“Well they- they’ve known me for a time. And, well, they take me for a monk,” he shrugged his shoulders.

“They’ve known me for a time, you say? Seven hells, what is afoot here?” If the children hadn’t been sleeping, she’d have been yelling.

“Now, that’s what I came here to explain - “

Suddenly, another memory returned to her and his explanation would have to wait. She remembered the feeling of his skin against her own, of the coarse hair against her fingers.

_A bear there was, a bear, a bear!_  
_all black and brown, and covered with hair._

Nothing much made her blush anymore, but she felt the flush overtake her cheeks. She knew he’d be able to see this and the knowledge of it only stoked the flames of her annoyance, “And why in the Seven Hells were you, well, without a damned shirt?”

“Seven save me. I’d been sleeping, Sansa. You’d made quite the racket outside my window when you gave that young man a beating.” He was smirking again.

Sansa. It had been nearly ten years since someone had called her by her true name Too stunned by it all to think of a reply, Sansa turned back towards Beth. Sansa began to remember another time and the press of a bloody kiss on her lips as the world outside burned green. The sense of the the Hound’s steady gaze upon her back returned her to the present from the depths of memory. The room started to feel too warm, too small. The Hound was too peaceful, too changed, too damned... pleasant. She needed fresh air. She needed to think.

Sansa walked towards a door opposite the hearth and donned her own heavy wool cloak and boots. Near the door, by the bed, was a large oak cupboard where she kept all her medicines and, having opened a cupboard door, she retrieved an earthenware jug as well as a horn cup. Balancing the jug and cup in one hand, she unlatched the door with the other and said, without looking behind her, “Well, come along then.”

-

The doorway led directly into the barn as the barn and house were one building. That the barn and the single room house shared a roof and that they were directly adjacent meant that both animals and people benefited from each other’s warmth, which was a great system during the long winter months. It almost helped against thieves, to sleep so close to one’s animals.

In the barn, Sansa kept a few goats, pigs, and her draft horse, Apples. Beth had been the on to name the horse and it suited the chestnut mare’s good nature. Sansa noticed a great black charger amongst the shadows of a far stall. Stranger. The horse was not asleep and it stomped one of its large back hoofs obstinately upon seeing its master and Sansa pass through the barn.

Save for a few rustling sounds coming from the sleeping beasts, the barn was quiet. Ribbons of moonlight streamed through bits of the thatched roof, allowing Sansa’s eyes to be able to scan over the sleeping creatures. Their water was clean and they had been fed. Their stalls had even been laid with fresh straw. I’ll have to thank Ben next I see him. Old Ben was their nearest neighbour, an older fellow who lived on his own, who enjoyed helping Sansa and the children when he could. His wife Jeyne had loved helping Sansa and the children as well, until a cold had sent her to the grave the previous year.

Pleased with the state of the barn, Sansa turned to the left by the sleeping pigs and made her way out another door. Outside, she walked through the pigpen and out towards the edge of the surrounding forest. A wattle fence surrounded her large winter garden. Though the winter had grown very mild and spring was imminent, only the hardier plants and root vegetables would grow as of yet.

Along the inside of the fence was a long wooden bench where she often liked to sit to do her mending once the children had been put to sleep. Sansa sat and motioned that the Hound sit beside her when she saw him hesitate. The bench creaked with his weight as he sat. The cold of the night air felt good against the uncomfortable warmth of her cheeks.

The Hound only watched as she poured a golden liquid from the earthenware jug into the horn cup.

“I’m afraid I only have the one cup. The other broke a month ago and I’ve yet to replace it. I’m afraid I’m not much of an entertainer,” Sansa smiled to herself and took a long drink from the cup. Fire shot down her throat and by the time it reached her stomach, she felt a pleasant glow in her belly. It was a strong cider made of her own apples, freeze-distilled over the long winter months until what remained was a drink as strong as any rum from the Summer Isles. Not only did the stuff help with a hangover, but it also came in useful when cleansing wounds.

Satisfied, she offered him the cup. He only shook his head.

“Suit yourself,” she took another drink and looked up at the sky. The night was cold and clear and the stars and moon shone brightly. And just as the jewels a boy king had ordained her with a lifetime ago, their sparkle brought no joy to her heart. The stars were frost, the moon was cold steel against her throat; they were heavenly sprectres in an indifferent universe. A shiver ran through her whole body.

“You’re looking to drink yourself silly again, girl?” He stopped himself and added, “You slept the whole length of the trip back and then all day.”

Sansa shrugged and drank again, “I’m fine. Just needed a rest. And besides, I stopped being a silly girl a long time ago.”

The Hound nodded and reached into his cloak, unlaced a leather pouch, then retrieved what looked like a piece of dried fish, which he presented to Sansa. “Might as well eat. You’ll be sick again.” This was too much.

Sansa tore the piece of fish from his hand angrily set the cup down on the ground. Emboldened by the drink and the years she’d spent fighting her way through life alone, she planted her hands firmly on the tops of her thighs and turned her body to face him. When she spoke, her tone was direct, accusing.

“Here I sit with the Hound, wearing little else but my shift and cloak while my babes sleep but yards away. This is the man once deemed the fiercest warrior and scoundrel in Westeros, and yet here he sits, looking like some sort of monk, wearing no armour and not drinking what I offer. And he offers me food? I wonder, is he mad or old or craven?”

At this he laughed and leaned back against the fence to gaze at the sky, just as she’d done a moment before. He cleared his throat. Sansa noticed that when he spoke, the words cracked in his throat and came slowly, as though from disuse.

“Old, maybe. Craven? Never. And mad? Well,” he turned his gaze towards her, “Aren’t we all?”

The light of the moon allowed her to see him more clearly. The man sitting beside her had seemingly changed dramatically and yet his face had not much changed from the one she had dreamt of so often as a girl. His hair was longer than she’d ever remembered, but just as black, and it rested in rivulets on the woolen cloak over his shoulders. He turned his face so she could see both sides of his face. Maybe his gaze was softer. At peace. He turned his gaze ahead of him once more, towards the garden, before speaking.

“I’ve been undertaker to the the Silent Brothers for some years. I also started working the forge after their blacksmith died the year after I arrived,” he shrugged. “Mostly making nails and mending ox carts.”

Sansa was incredulous. “In King’s Landing red rage was your shield and armour. What happened that you sit here peacefully? And… even mirthful?”

The bulk of his chest deflated as he let escape a sigh, “Ten years of digging earth and pounding steel did well to calm the rage within me. And besides, work such as that does not leave much energy for anything else but sleep.” He turned and smiled a coy smile. The grey of his eyes glinted in the light like the moon above and suddenly she no longer thought of the moon as cold or indifferent. “Your Hound is dead,” he said simply.

She’d long thought the Hound to be dead. A secret part of her had even mourned him. But then, she’d seen him once, some years ago, once she’d left the Mountain Clans to live with the Silent Sisters.

It had been the deepest part of the Long Winter and a traveller had come to the cloister one evening, asking for a meal with silent gestures to the Silent Sister who had greeted him. Sansa, though not a Silent Sisters herself, had earned her keep with the Sisters cleaning floors and dead bodies. Sansa had been scrubbing a floor tile behind a pillar in a shadowy corner of the entranceway and had been quite sure neither the Sister nor the monk had been aware of her presence.

The traveller had been a giant of a monk, though his body and face had been obscured by a hooded winter cloak. It was not uncommon for travelling monks to stop on the road for a bed or a meal. The Sister left the room to procure what the traveller needed and the man had waited, cowled head bent, silent as the Stranger himself. Sansa had watched him curiously from the shadows, daring not make a sound. She had often dreamed of taking to the road herself, of one day having a life beyond the walls of the cloister. The traveller was as much excitement as she was likely to witness for some time.

The Sister had returned with a package of food and the man turned to leave, limping heavily as he had walked back outside. Once the Sister disappeared and Sansa had felt it was safe to emerge from the shadows, she ran to a front window of the cloister, hoping to catch a glimpse of the monk’s departure. The doe skin slippers the Sisters obliged her to wear inside and her deftly placed steps ensured she made not a sound as she ran across the tiled floor. Besides, the Sisters were now at prayer, which none would notice her absence.

The window offered a view of the outer wall of the cloister and, through the iron gate, a view of the road. The night was bright and the light of the moon made the snow glow a pearlish white. The monk had not yet left. He’d stood by the iron gate, holding his horse’s bridle, motionless. Snowflakes had fallen like tufts of goose down in the windless night around him. He’d stood as still as any statue for some time, staring out at the road. And long after he’d departed, Sansa had sat at the window, looking out on the road. If not for his horse, she might not have recognized the traveller at all.

“And gone is your Little Bird.” The terrified girl of King’s Landing had died long ago. After she’d lived a time as Alayne Stone, she’d learned that stories of noble princes and beautiful castles was for children.

Sandor nodded and said, gesturing to the garden and house, “It seems we have both changed.” When he look back at her, his eyes were questioning, and she felt at ease to oblige him.

“At sixteen I escaped from Littlefinger’s cage. Mysterious death. Poor, stupid fellow,” she said this bluntly, without feeling. “But that is a story for another day.” She broke her gaze with Sandor and looked back towards the sky. “I then lived a time with the Mountain Clans - I was lucky they took pity on me and considered red hair lucky - and then afterwards I lived a time with the Silent Sisters. Both the Clans and the Sisters were disinterested enough in the outside world that I was always safest with them. In those years, I learned much about healing and about the dealings of birth and life. There was no time for princes or castles in the mountain forests or in the halls of the decaying and dying. After a time I felt it was safe to leave the Silent Sisters and find my own way in the world. I continue the work I did, birthing babies and easing the passing of the dying. ”

He cleared his throat. His features were suddenly serious, almost awkward, “And the children?”

“They are my children, but not of my flesh, if that is what you wish to know.” The fire-cider had loosened her tongue and the words flowed. She found herself trusting him. “Beth was born to a whore at The Seven Bells who could not continue her trade with a babe at her breast. And Edwyn, well, you’ve certainly seen his face,” she cleared her throat. “He was brought to me by a woodsman who came upon him in the forest. The babe had been left to the cold and the wolves to die.” Edwyn was a healthy child, but born with a hare-lip. Amongst the Mountain Clans, it was considered lucky to be born with such a feature as it meant the child would grow to be a great warrior, as the child’s face shared similarities with the fierce brown bears of the pine mountain forests. Unfortunately, this belief was not shared by the more superstitious small folk, who often thought the disfigured child a changeling, an elven child left in place of the stolen human child. It was believed that in order for the elves to return the human child, the changeling had to be restored to its elven-kin. In reality, a disfigured child was merely left to die in the woods.

Sandor only nodded and said gravely, “I know what it is for a child with a monster’s face.”

They sat there for a time, not saying anything, merely looking out over the moonlight garden.

Finally, it was he who broke the silence. “Did you really think I did not see you, hiding there in the shadows, all those years ago?” Sansa was dumbfounded. She wasn’t sure what had stunned her the most,the fact that he’d seen her then, hiding in the halls of the Silent Sisters, or this new habit he had of smiling sincerely.

Her shock killed the possibility of a sensible reply. A satisfied grin shot over his face at seeing her surprised. So some things haven’t changed, it seems, she thought.

He continued, “After I saw you, I stood within the courtyard a long time, wondering what I should do, knowing full well you’d seen me and Stranger. But seeing that you were healthy and safe, I decided that you were old enough make your own decisions, to decide whether or not you would follow me.”

The smile disappeared and his eyes were once again the fiercely intense grey of the days of King’s Landing. There was still a warrior within him. “I promise you it was not an easy thing to do, Sansa.” He paused a moment, coughed, and went on, “The brothers of the Quiet Isle don’t mind my leaving occasionally for a time. I didn’t want to try and order you about, I only wanted to know that you were safe. I trusted only my own eyes to confirm it. I’d known that it was through no mean feat that you were still alive.”

“You’ve known I was alive all this time and never thought to approach me? To tell me that you were alive?” she didn’t feel anger or resentful, she felt mostly tired. Long ago, the girl she’d been had learned that hoping for this only brought disappointment and sorrow. Life was not a song. There were no true knits.

“You knew I was alive, Sansa. And besides, you seemed well enough,” he said firmly, but not uncarefully.

“So you’d hide amongst the bushes and spy on a lone woman and her babes?” she challenged in a mocking tone.

He shook his head. “The Seven Bells. I’d take a room there and wait until market day, until you came to sell your wares. Hiding there is easy enough. So long as you pay, the innkeep and whores will keep quiet. I’ve only stayed a few times since you saw me with the Silent Sisters.”

“And a man has his needs, I suppose. There can’t be much for pleasure on the Quiet Isles,” Sansa reproached.

He turned his gaze away and fingered a leaf on a vine growing nearby with his thumb and forefinger. He sniffed at the leaf, then let it fall away. The shiny flesh of his burnt face glinted in the moonlight. “I don’t suppose you’ll be much surprised to learn that women have never been interested in me, unless they wanted my klink.”

He turned back towards Sansa, eyes fierce once more, “Those habits died with the Hound. I’m no longer that man.”

Seven hells, the Hound must be dead. Sandor Clegane sits in my garden, as reserved and well-mannered as any pimply virgin youth. Sansa laughed, despite herself. His brow furrowed, eyes puzzled.

“Tell me to go and I’ll go, Sansa.” His voice was hoarse.

Sansa nodded pensively and leaned back onto the wattle fencing. The moon was lowering in the sky. A few hours more and the sun would rise. The children would need feeding and bathing. The goats would need milking. Food would need cooking. Clothes would need mending. Weeds would need pulling. She closed her eyes and drew in the cool night’s air into her lungs. It felt good to be outside, to be the only one awake before the day brought on all its noises and challenges.

Sansa turned her head and looked towards the house. It was a small housebarn with a thatched roof and low whitewashed walls. It was a small and ancient thing, but it was hers. The sale of a last piece of jewellery gifted to her by Littlefinger had secured the house. No piece of gold or precious jewel had ever made her feel as proud as did the sight of her little dwelling.

Nothing much remained of Sansa Stark or Alayne Stone. The collapse of House Lannister and the subsequent rise of the boy King Rickon Stark in the North, the Winter Wolf, had made so that any interest there may have been in Sansa Stark had long since disappeared. Save for a story of a red headed maiden amongst the Mountain Clans, it was believe she had died along with most of House Stark. Besides, no one would believe that the eldest daughter of Ned Stark was a healer and midwife amongst the smallfolk, nor would they believe that she was milking goats and changing diapers in a tiny thatched cottage in the woods.

House Stark. Sansa sometimes allowed herself to think of her family, of her mother and father, of brave Robb and the serious Jon, of dear Bran and Arya and baby Rickon. King Rickon, the Winter Wolf. The only wolf left. No. Not the only one. Perhaps she’d find the courage or madness to visit her one remaining sibling some day. She wondered if he’d even remember her.

Her thoughts turned to Beth and the baby Edwin. Her own dear family; a patchwork family maybe, but a family nonetheless. Could she dare almost believe herself happy. She looked back at the man sitting next to her. It was only then she noticed that Sandor Clegane had been eyeing her intently, as though trying to discern her thoughts. The sound of a baby’s wail broke their mutual scrutiny.

She reached out her hand from beneath the warmth of her cloak and placed it on his own, which rested on his knee. The hand was as big as a bear’s paw, but exceedingly warm against the skin of her own. A heat apart from that of the fire-cider warmed her belly as she remembered the feeling of her cheek against his bare chest.

Very carefully, and seemingly with great concentration, Sandor turned his hand so that his large fingers wrapped around her own cold fingers. She smiled despite herself and took a heavy breath, “Well then, you’d better follow me. Make yourself useful. Much to do around here. I have yet to teach a baby to change their own nappy.” She stood and smirked, seeing his expression. She felt great satisfaction to see that the once fearsome Sandor Clegane seemed properly unsettled at the mere mention of a baby’s nappy.

The sky was beginning to turn the lighter grey of early morning. And it was as they walked towards the house and the crying Edwyn that Sansa Stark began to hum the tune of a song she’d thought she’d forgotten long ago.


End file.
